


Same as You

by timorousAugur (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Anorexia, Anxiety, Depression, Eating Disorders, F/F, F/M, M/M, Marijuana, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicide Attempt, if you have problems with mental health issues this is not the fic for you friend, not entirely sad!!!, psychiatric hospital
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 13:49:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/timorousAugur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can picture your obituary in the paper, you can hear the talk the principal is going to give to the entire school, and you can hear some people not caring at all- 'God, when are we going to get out of this assembly? It's not like I'm going to go and off myself.' or 'I get the point already, god.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John ==> Fuck Everything Up

It's around 2 am on a Tuesday morning. You have school in five hours, and plans with Rose at 4 pm. On a usual Tuesday, Rose will ask you to hang out and since you're really not ever busy, you go along with it. She'll bring you to the movies to see new horror films (which you will usually walk out of stiff as a board even if you enjoyed it), or go for coffee, or sometimes even on a road trip. She got her license just a month ago and since then she's been using it as much as possible, usually dragging you along with her. Today, specifically, you're going to the mall with her. You're probably not even going to buy anything but Starbucks, but Dad will give you like twenty dollars anyways, and Rose will laugh and make comments on people as they pass after she drags you into Barnes and Nobles. You're really excited to go, even if the plan is routine. 

Or uh, you were? Kind of? Probably? You're not really certain that you can keep those plans anymore. It's not like you haven't been late before, in fact you are often late, but you've never just not shown up. Actually yeah, you're sure you're not going to be able to make it. You wonder how long it'll take for her to put two and two together, really. Rose is pretty smart. You hope she won't be disappointed, but know she will be. She'll be somewhere between disappointment and anguish and you need to end this train of thought right this second.

Last night you had a concert with the school's orchestra. It wasn't a terribly bad performance, really just a run-of-the-mill end year concert, and you played your solo pretty well. The seniors all cried, the teacher got a few gifts, and your fingers got tired. You're pretty sure you tore your new button up by accidentally sitting on it and scooching, but Dad can almost definitely fix it. Or secretly buy you a new one and pretend it was the same one as before. He sure has the whole subtle pranking thing down. He was waiting for you in the hall afterwards like usual, but with a bouquet of red tulips. 

He says that Mom used to pick them from the (now desolate) garden in the back yard to give to you when you first were clanging on your mini piano. After remembering the story he told you about them, your gut twisted up a little bit. He wistfully recounted how they'd laugh while they shouted encore at you over and over and his eyes would crinkle and her lips were cherry red and you can almost see their faces happy and laughing and encouraging and you can almost see it- you can _almost fucking see it._

Everyone online is always saying "learn your triggers" or "understand the source". While it's a valid idea, it's pretty much useless. The snap into this state is nothing you can pin down, and you don't know if it's Rose or the tulips or something inside of you but it's something. It's definitely something, but you don't know what. All you know is that you end up on your bed with your hands around your thighs or arms to stop the bleeding. Not like you really bleed too much anyways- but the point still stands. 

You really didn't think any of this would bother you right now. Of all the things spinning around in your head you pluck Rose and the tulips from your database of the past week and you begin to wonder if you have a flower fixation. That shouldn't be funny, and you shouldn't be laughing. It might just be the fact that you're incredibly overwhelmed at the moment. You stop laughing because it's amazingly inappropriate, and your dad is all about propriety. You don't know if this entire scene really needs manners though. It's an ugly situation that you're only getting around to now. Sure, you've thought about it before, and you've gotten close a few times but that's pretty much it. Though it is pretty amusing that this is one of the things you've actually had incentive for lately. You paced in front of the bathroom for a bit but you're actually doing it, and you're not sure if that rewards applause or scolding.

You think you hate that about yourself. You're pretty sure you hate that about yourself. That's twelve more for the hate. Pills, that is. You're taking pills. Did you forget to mention you're taking a shit ton of pills? This should be written down on your mental ledger, come on dude. You take them six at a time and they're thick and intimidating as they're swallowed. The pit of your stomach is nauseous and feebly protests against the medicine sliding down your throat. 

You always were one for stupid ideas. Not that you don't usually mean well, but still. You pretend that taking your blades out of their hiding place in the drawer is also just a stupid idea you have good intentions for, and stumble your way over to the bathtub. The pills are making you really, really dizzy. You didn't really anticipate that, but you should have. They're the really strong acetaminophen pills Dad keeps for his migraines, of course they're gonna have bad effects. The first three cuts are way deeper than any you've had before, and you think it has something to do with the pills as well. You're not a scientist or a doctor though so you really don't know jack shit, and if it's really the pills fault or the fact that you don't care anymore. 

They're the awful kind where the skin parts and blood takes a second to start coming out. It makes your eyes widen and a frightened whimper find its way out of your throat. You've never made cuts this big before and it's kind of horrifying, even if it's what you wanted to do. Your eyes race for bandages until you remember that this is part of the improvised plan, and you decide to leave it be and find a more comfortable place to end your days.

When you go to sit down, your head hits the tub and your foot hits the toilet with a clang and a thump. How many pills have you even taken at this point? They're affecting you this much? The thought makes you giggle aloud until you swear you hear Dad calling your name from his room, so you don't make a peep anymore and watch your blood fall into the tub. Not even the quietest of peeps. The blood stands out against the linoleum of the floor and the bathtub, and you can't help but worry slightly that it'll stain. 

You wonder what everyone's going to say. Are they going to question why you did it? Are they even going to care? You can picture your obituary in the paper, you can hear the talk the principal is going to give to the entire school, you can hear some people not caring at all- 'God, when are we going to get out of this assembly? It's not like I'm going to go and off myself.' or 'I get the point already, god.', and you can see your teachers furrowing their brows and wondering why a kid with good grades, a musical background, and a sunny disposition killed himself. You're not sure if it encourages you or if it makes you want to stop all at once. The thoughts are disjointed from your current state, as if they're not your thoughts, as if you're not the one thinking about them. It bothers you immensely. 

The entire room starts to spin, and it scares you so you close your eyes. It's remarkably hard to reassure yourself when your world is spinning and you can't feel the tips of your fingers. You lean your head against the tub and wonder why you didn't bounce back this time, what was different, or any kind of answer. Was it because you gave up or that you can't stand it any longer? You really don't know. It bothers you a little bit, and you keep searching for answer. Maybe it was all too much at once? Maybe you're just tired. Maybe all those failed half-attempts were building up to this point. Maybe you just wish someone would acknowledge the fact that you're not doing alright. Someone other than Rose. Someone like your Dad. 

You guess that you just kept things piling up too long, you kept ignoring that things were getting bad and now here you are, sitting in a bright white bathroom with your dumb ass on the floor bleeding everywhere. Usually you'd talk to Rose by now. Bugging her didn't seem like an option, especially because if you talk to her, you'll stop, and you'll have worried her for no reason. You're enough of a burden already.

Your heart is beating quickly, though dully, against your chest and it gets a little harder to breathe. You're fine, you're really fine. Your heart isn't trying hard to keep up with your body and your lungs and all these goddamn pills, that's a lie, nothing is wrong. You think need to occupy yourself with thoughts that aren't on your bodily functions.

So when you think about it, you realize that this isn't really who you ever wanted to be as a kid. Some awesome prankster, a pianist, a magician, anything. You realize you've never really given so much thought to the afterlife, you haven't really thought about everyone else and that sucks- that sucks so much but it's hard to live even for everyone else even if you're sure that they'll all be okay (you have so much faith in them, they can live well even if you're gone and you know it, you know if anyone can, it's them), and you wonder about your mother. Where she is right- oh. Wow okay, okay, that hurts, that really fucking hurts, is that your liver? wow, ok- where she is right now. 

The pain fades quickly and your breathing speeds up. It's hard to think right when your body is freaking out so much and you begin to panic a little yourself.

It's okay, you tell yourself. You don't have to be this anymore, you don't have to be the kid that got messed up somewhere along the lines despite having a good life, you're alright. You're completely fine.

It gets a little hard to think and that's worrying but also the point. 

It's alright. You're okay.

You're fine, really.

Just fine.

* * *

The first thing you do when you wake up is vomit into a trash bin. It's all black and tastes like ash and soot. You really hope this isn't the entrance to the afterlife, because that would be really really shitty. Why would you need to throw up ash into a trash bin for the afterlife? Is it some kind of weird soul residue? It tastes absolutely disgusting. You want some kind of soul refund, because this afterlife is the dumps. The smelliest and disgusting-est of dumps.

A scolding voice comes from the other side of the room you're in as a door clicks shut, and you groan. Not now demons or angels or whatever, you're really content throwing up all this black shit from your stomach. You hardly realize what she's saying and only faintly pick up the words "Lord", "Jesus", and "Bless you" about a hundred times until near the end of her little speech.

"-and good Lord child, you could be dead right now. Are you hearing me, son? Lord help you. I said stop throwing up that charcoal. The more you throw up, the more we'll have to pump back in you," She reprimands with a tight look on her face.

"Excuse me?" Is your hoarse response. 

"I said, you stop throwing up that charcoal, you hear me? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph child, you could be dead right this second if not for that charcoal!" She says lividly.

Could be dead.

That's.  
Really fucking awesome.  
Okay, wow. You're alive. You fucking slit your arm open and took a fuckload of pills and you're still not dead! Imagine that! How amazing! A miracle! You're fucking alive! God must have something REALLLLLLLLY SPECIAL PLANNED FOR YOU, JOHN EGBERT. CAN'T GO OFFING YOURSELF LIKE THAT YOU LITTLE SHIT. FUCKING GREAT. YEAH. OKAY. AWESOME. THEY FLUSHED YOUR STOMACH AND GAVE YOU CHARCOAL TO NEGATE THE PILLS OR SOMETHING AND STITCHED YOU RIGHT BACK UP. WHAT AN ACT OF KINDNESS.

You try to roll over on to your face to cry where nobody can watch, but hey, IVs are really inconvenient aren't they? You end up bawling your eyes out in front of the pinchy-faced religious nurse and she doesn't do a goddamned thing to help. She just sighs and leaves the room, probably to get more charcoal, "just to be safe!", that bitch.

When your tears finally dry on your cheeks and you just feel numb, you glance down at your arm to look at the stitches. They're kind of crooked looking, and the area all around the cuts is bruised. Right around your three wounds, the skin is a bright pink and it bothers you slightly. When you touch them, they definitely hurt more than you thought they would. 

It's light outside now, and you're missing the second to last day of school. Jade must be having a fit. She's already concerned with your attendance as it is, not because you're failing or anything, but probably because when she asks you why, you mumble out an 'I don't know,' every time. You don't want to lie to her, but you can't tell her that you lied to Dad and told him you were sick because you couldn't get out of your bed. Which was a perfect plan, of course, because avoiding life was obviously the best option.

When the nurse comes back, she hands you a little paper cup with the foul black shit and tells you to drink it. When you refuse, she tells you that she will feed it to you through a tube if she has to. She doesn't say anything about you crying, watches you as you drink all of it (you gag in the process), and then leaves the room. Seconds later, Dad bursts through the door looking rather disheveled. His tie is all crooked and half of his shirt is unbuttoned, his hat is nowhere to be found, and he is wearing two different shoes. His hair suggests that he's been pulling and mussing with it for hours. It doesn't look anything like what he usually wears and you are momentarily disoriented. 

Then before you can speak, he comes up to you and presses hundreds of kisses on the top of your head and throws his arms around you. Enduring it, you try to forget how much you hate the extra affection, even in its place. Your quick glance at his face shows you tired eyes and slight frown. Immediately, you believe you've aged him beyond his years in this 'little stunt'. Your father, though strong, is not a springy young man anymore. He's getting old. That scares you a little.

You're afraid at what he's going to say. However to your surprise, he doesn't speak at all for a while. There's no scolding, no angered yet polite discussion, he just holds you for a few minutes and then sits at the end of your bed. When he does finally speak, he doesn't ask you why, or if it was his fault. You dearly hope that he doesn't think that it was his fault. After a while, a hospital psychiatrist is going to come to assess you, he says, and he would very much like you to tell the truth. You can tell him when you're ready, but he wants you to talk to the psychiatrist so that they can help you and find what's right for you. 

His eyes are watering as he speaks. You can't deal with it. Dad will understand this. You're not trying to be cold, you literally just cannot deal with it right now.

You bury your face into your hands because all you really want right this second is to disappear. You can't stand it when your father cries. You don't want to see the psychiatrist soon. You want them to come later. Or maybe tomorrow. Or maybe not at all. You don't want Dad in front of you crying, you don't want to cry in front of him, and you just want to be gone. Poof. Where did John go? We have no idea. You want to be miles away from here, where nobody has the opportunity to watch you cry; you want to be miles up into the clouds where you can hardly breathe because at least nobody would be around to watch.

Turning over slightly despite the IV, you tell your dad okay and pretend that when you close your eyes, the world has disappeared. 


	2. John ==> Be Assessed

You awaken to your Dad tapping you lightly and calling out his name. His voice doesn't waver anymore, but his hands are still shaking when he pats you on the head and leaves you with the bright-eyed psychiatrist in the corner of the room. He says that if you should need him, he will be just outside. 

Turning your head to the psychiatrist, he seems remarkably happy to be interviewing some suicidal teen that probably smells like charcoal vomit and despair. His nametag tells you that his name is plainly "Joe". No last name, just Joe. You furrow your eyebrows slightly but let "plain Joe" just be, well, plain Joe. He approaches and sits quite close to you, his bright blue and yellow outfit under his necessary hospital-wear is kind of hurting your eyes. The first thing he asks you is if you're comfortable. You really didn't expect that, and you shift yourself so that you're sitting up better, adjusting so that you don't have to look at his ridiculous clothing.

He goes on to ask you if anyone in your family has ever had a history of mental illness and if you've ever been on medication or if you've ever been diagnosed. It's very sudden, but you answer him honestly (an "I have no idea" and two no's, really.) He keeps asking you questions until eventually he gets to the point when he asks if you still want to. Kill yourself, that is. The question freezes you in place. Your chest constricts a bit and the stone you didn't know was in your throat drops right down to the hollow of your neck, its presence threatening tears. You're not going to cry this time. That's stupid. 

You don't want to be in here answering a bunch of questions, to be honest. You're miserable, you've got this awful feeling in your stomach and you think that you're gonna throw up again. Are you going to do it again? If he gave you forty pills right now, you would throw up all the charcoal and down all of the pills ten at a time. Yeah. You would do it again.

"Right now? Definitely," you mumble out slowly. 

"Alright. Will you tell me why you felt you needed to go down this path?" He asks as he jots down something.

His handwriting is crooked, but neat, and you figure that if you focus on it, then you won't have to answer him. Your mouth turns down in distaste. You didn't pinpoint an answer last night and you're not about to be able to give him a straight answer. Your chest clenches a little bit and he waits expectantly. He raises his eyebrows a little, and your lips shake as you open and close your mouth a few times. You can't just not answer him. What if he thinks Dad has something to do with it? That it's not your fault, that you need to escape some shitty life Dad is (not) giving you? You have to give him an answer. A few snippets fall out of your mouth sounding rather panicked from last night- the piling up- the ignoring- but the resounding thought of wanting to be acknowledged floats up in your head somewhere, just out of reach, just in the taboo zone, just in the corner you don't talk about. He responds by nodding tersely, but moves on.

He next asks you about your support systems at home and if there is anyone you talk to. You briefly speak of Rose before you realize that last night you didn't even bother because you _didn't want to waste her time with another phony suicide attempt_ , and shut your mouth.

"How long have you felt this way?" He asks straight off his sheet.

"A long while," Is all you say.

It feels like more than a long while. It feels like centuries, it feels as if every suicidal thought is as old as the galaxy itself, and you feel they will last through the expansion of the sun. You can't remember exactly when it started, but for years now there is an ache in the pit of your stomach, as if you've missed something. Something big. Like the world pulled events from your life as it laughed- "No-sorry- not much about your mother here anymore," or "We took the life changing event right out of your life, sorry, not sorry, hoohoo!" You're missing the joke and the event and everything that came with it. No matter how fond you grow of your mother through second hand memories it is tiring to chase wisps of someone you never knew in an attempt at love. It was something much bigger than just your mother, and you know it.

You don't tell any of that to him. It feels too raw and you don't want to share it with anyone. Especially smiley mcGee over there.

He nods his head and asks you a bunch of questions like "did you see or hear anything unusual?" or "have you ever had homicidal urges?" that don't apply to you at all. You stare blankly at him as you answer the questions. You couldn't smile if you tried. A hundred consequences of the situation fly through your head all at once and you just, you just, you want some pills. You want a ton of pills. You want more pills and sharper blades and a hundred bridges to jump off of. You wish you died last night. You really do. A nurse comes in briefly to check your vitals- a different one- and she doesn't say much, sneering at plain Joe on her way out. You feel like you're in some bad rendition of scrubs for a moment, but it soon passes. The last question Joe Schmoe asks you before he leaves is if you regret it. 

You do. Partially. You are slightly relieved you are not dead somewhere in the deepest pits of your body because of instinct but you regret not doing more, you regret not keeping quiet, and you regret not dying last night. Vocalizing some of this, you turn from him and let him leave, his ever-present smile staying as he walks right out of the door. You assume he is speaking with your father in the hall, and wonder where your phone is. You're not sure if you want to check it or not.

The clock on the other side of the room reads 1:15 and your heart skips. School is out because of the half day. It'll take Rose twenty minutes to get home, and if she gets the news, then probably another ten to get here, whereas Jade if she gets the news will be available in only twenty minutes. You want them to come to see you. You really don't want them to come and see you. Is it possible for you to get non-family visitors? You don't think so. The thought relaxes you slightly, and you lean back in your bed. 

Outside you can hear the lilt of your father's voice as he talks to Joe. He doesn't really sound upset, but you can tell by his tone that he is confused or asking questions. Plain Joe is probably telling Dad what's about to happen. After all, he probably sees tons of kids like you. With the answers he has, he probably already has his suggestions based upon every kid he's seen in the past, and that bothers you a little bit for some reason. It was over that quick. You have spent at least three years of your life building up to this moment and he takes it all in twenty minutes, jots it in his pristine handwriting and takes it out to draw conclusions. To tell the truth, you feel positively robbed.

Joe lets in the nurse from before and explains to you that she's going to be in the room for you until night's out. For the rest of the time you are here. Which he tells you is 72 hours, or until they clear you to leave to get your things or transfer you. You don't know what that means, but you think it means they would send you to a different hospital or something? What would they do that for? You should be going home or something, right? Like yeah you tried to commit suicide, but aren't they gonna send you to therapy and let you go home?

You voice your concerns to the nurse, and she tells you to settle down. Nothing is official yet, but she's here to keep an eye on you, and that's basically it. You ask her if it's possible to get visitors from your friends. 

"First, Joe would have had to clear it. He told me on my way in that you are allowed one at a time. Your father would then have to approve them, and then we'd ask you. If you're not comfortable with it, we won't force you to see them. You will, eventually though, have to face them, and sooner is better than later, I'd say, and they have to come during visiting hours," She tells you, her face pensive.

She's much nicer than the other nurse. Maybe she just has something about ole Joe. Regardless, it's possible for Jade or Rose to see you. You don't know what to feel. On one hand, you totally want them to come and see you. You want them to know you're alive and that they never did anything to hurt you because they're both wonderful girls, really, they really are, and they're your best friends. You don't want the questions or the scolding or the crying or anything that comes with it, though. Rose will try to keep face up and act like she's furious because you didn't call her, but she'll be blaming herself and shaking. Jade will be actually mad, but she's the one more likely to cry, you think. So much has already happened today and you don't know if you want them to come or not. 

You're being really selfish, and you know that. They deserve to be able to see you. You've probably put them through a huge steamy pile of shit today and you're all teenagers. Emotions are rampant enough without you letting them see you. So you decide that you'll try to keep up face for them, you'll sit up right and be chipper and try to avoid all the touchy bad things because there's no more room for it today, because you may burst into a million pieces if you let yourself get into an even darker place.

Nodding at the nurse, you tell her that they can come in, and it's fine. You exhale loudly and stare at your lap, thoughts flying as you watch the shadows move. You're planning what you're going to say to the both of them already. You respond to brain Rose's contained angry voicing of "why didn't you call me?" with a "It was late, it was too late and I wasn't going to call you about another dumb attempt," but that lets brain Rose respond with a "they were all just 'dumb failed attempts' _because_ you called me. I was fine with helping you!!", so you change course. You guess the easiest thing to say would just be "I don't know". It'll sound super dejected and stuff but it's honestly the best course of action you guess, because you know Rose would just set her eyebrows and purse her lips a little as she sits next to you.

Busy as you are, you don't really notice that Nurse - Clara? Yeah. Clara Olepav, she took out her phone and started playing around on it. You also don't notice the quick, furious, female voice outside your door until it's too late. Dad has cleared Jade, and you cleared with Clara about twenty five minutes ago. Jade opens the door, and keeps her temper restrained for all of two minutes as she stares at you. Her eyes water and you realize you didn't have time to plan out Jade's conversation, that you're totally out of the loop.

Her bright green eyes are livid and her clothes are obviously from the school day, but she's sweating. Did she run over? Her dark hair is slightly unkempt and you deduct that yeah, she probably did. You can see her, legs strong from all that forest exploration years ago when she still lived on that island, pounding on the blacktop of the street as each passerby moves out of the way with incredulous faces as the wild girl tears through the residential streets. 

"John Egbert! Are you serious right now!! I get out of school and think that you're still playing it safe all alone in your room like you usually do, you know, lying to your father! But no! You're here, after trying to kill yourself! Why didn't you just tell me! About all of this? I could have understood, I mean, I already knew, but hearing that you _at least trust me well enough_ to tell me would have been good! You could have called me and I could have helped, you fucker!" She says, barely keeping her voice down and only because you're in a hospital as hot, angry tears leak from her eyes. 

She grabs your shirt in both of her fists and her knuckles turn white as she cries behind her glasses, mouth set in a deep frown. Her elbows are shaking and you can feel it in her fists. You scrunch your eyebrows up and bite the inside of your top lip. You half expect her to hit you. You kind of wish she would hit you. 

"I heard the news when I got home and I didn't know what to do, or if you were alive because half way through the report I couldn't listen anymore! Do you know how worried I am?? You are my best friend, John, why didn't you think you could tell me any of this?" She grits out as her chin begins to tremble, "There's so much worth fighting this for, don't you know that?"

Her arms slump and some of her angry, adrenaline fueled energy dissipates. She hugs you tightly and chucks her glasses onto the bed, shoving her face into your shoulder as she lets the rest of her tears dry. You're honestly speechless, and you wrap your arms around her tightly. You can feel her let out a sigh, setting her shoulders as she moves her head to rest her chin on your shoulder. It takes her a moment to start speaking again, and you're dearly sorry.

"I already knew there was something wrong. Rose wouldn't tell me because she's got tight lips but I knew something was going on. I know you so well by now that sometimes you don't have to tell me the truth, you know? Like I get it. It's hard to talk about. I just want you to trust me, John. I don't want you to feel like there's no way out, okay?" She says, much quieter than before. 

"Yeah, yeah. Okay, yeah. I understand Jade. I'm sorry, it's just really hard to talk about, you know that. I'll try to be more honest. It's just gonna take time, you know?" You mutter, tears prickling up. 

"Good," She smiles crookedly.

You give her a small smile back. It's infectious, but you're not actually smiling. It's fake, but in any other situation you would be grinning at her, full force. A choked, nervous laugh comes up from your throat, and she giggles a little. 

"Wow. That was really intense, wow," You half laugh, half make a choked noise, and a few tears worm their way from your eyes.

"Yeah, just, please though, seriously, I'm here, John. I'm gonna let Rose in though. She got here first but insisted I went in ahead of her," She nods, squeezing you a little tighter before letting go.

You nod your head, re-preparing yourself. You're certain you're about to get a talking-to by Rose. In the time that passes between Rose's visit and Jade's visit, you let your smile drop and you go back to staring into your lap. You fist your hand in your hair and suck in a deep breath when you hear footsteps approaching your door. When she walks in, her eyes are red and puffy but her face is impeccable and smooth, even if you see her lip twitch a few times. Her trademark black lipstick is worn and hardly there, and the dress Kanaya probably picked out is crinkled, the waistline all crooked. She walks over and sits down next to you, leaning over until you bump shoulders. She doesn't look at you. Clara laughs at something on her phone.

"I've been here most of the day," She says, her voice quiet.

"I thought I'd lost you," She says after a short pause, swallowing thickly.

It's the only thing she says. You sling your arm around her shoulder, and a silent sob wracks her body just once.

She doesn't cry, and you almost do it for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little Pistols by Mother Mother and No Lies, Just Love by Bright Eyes (or anything by Bright Eyes, really.) are both very good songs to write to uvu  
> as always, my blog is timorousAugur.tumblr.com  
> I post little updates as to what I'm doing on there sometimes and occasionally blog about homestuck.  
> Hopefully this was as good as last chapter, I wrote it in less time, so please tell me how it compares and I'll see if I can't fix it up a bit!


	3. John ==> Suicide Watch

They eventually decide to send you to this teen ward a little upstate on the second day you are in the hospital. Dad has to persuade you in a hundred different ways. No, John, they will not make you wear a hospital gown, I checked, he tells you. You won't be able to come home at first, but I will visit you, Yes I can pay for this, I have _plenty_ of inheritance from my mother's company -(you shudder)- that I can use. No, you won't have a roommate at first. After a few days, however, probably, he finishes. He gives you two hours time to think about it. You know the decision is almost completely set in his eyes- a no will prompt more worrying and persuading- and he won't make you go if you really don't want to, but you know you cannot say no to him. You won't be able to tell him that it's not a good idea, because it is, even if you don't want to go. You can't deny him. He's going to miss you in the time that you're gone, but the overwhelming need for you to be okay that he probably feels is overpowering it. You don't want to go, but rationally, when do you really ever want to do a whole lot of anything? It's for a month or two _at most_. Dad can even pull you out on the first Thursday available if he needs to.

Jade and Rose both visit again briefly, Jade laughing about leaving her glasses with you (effectively making you laugh a little as well in the process), and the both of them giving you their opinions. Jade doesn't know a whole lot about the mental hospital deal, but she wants you to get better. Anything that helps is something she's alright with, as she really wants you to be happy so you can watch movies with her. You know secretly she also wants someone to spew all her really complicated science at as well, and even if you don't understand all of it, you get some of the basic concepts. You wish you could be so upbeat for her, too. She tells you she knows you can.

Rose, on the other hand, has already looked up the hospital you'll be going to and is prepared to give you the skinny on it. The teen ward is on the second floor, they have room for up to 20 patients when two to a room, and the schedule is also posted. She tells you that though breakfast is at 7:30 am and you must attend (obviously), lights out is at 11:00 which gives you the necessary eight hours, but you can sleep more by going to bed earlier if you really want to. She makes a few sideways jokes at the food they probably serve, but overall tells you that she thinks it is a very good idea. She has looked up the option a few times, and there are many success stories. There are unsuccessful stories as well, she tells you, but there are not as many. 

Everyone is urging you to go, and you don't think you can say no. Not that the whole deal doesn't have it's appeal, it really does, you have heard a lot of positives today. It's just that... you don't really know. It's a weird feeling. It's this deep apprehension of the whole idea, it's the fact that you're going to have to make an effort to stop. You'd have to try, and you'll lose sometimes and you wonder if the let downs are going to be worth it. If you'll be able to stop feeling this way. You want to stop because it's bad, you're hurting yourself- you tried to fucking _kill yourself_ \- but it's also easier. Less heartbreaking, you think. It's easy to hurt yourself, it's easy to want to kill yourself, it's easy to be down because you'll never have to experience the drop from feeling happy to feeling like shit. There's a difference between jumping off of a skyscraper and a ledge. You don't know if you'll be able to deal with the bigger fall, or if you can get there in the first place. You'll be taking the stairs to the top of the building and you want all the effort and tears and sweat to be worth it instead of another soul-crushing drop-off.

You decide to do it. If not for yourself, then for everyone else. You'll go, even if you're terrified. Because you know if there is the slightest chance that after you climb up all those stairs that everyone will be waiting for you, that you can coast on the top of the building even if the sun is bearing down on you. That maybe if you get help, it won't become a skyscraper. Maybe it'll just be a ledge. Maybe rock bottom will get filled up with cement and everything you don't know that you need until it doesn't exist anymore. Maybe it'll work. 

They keep you in the hospital while your father fills out the necessary paperwork. Clara is shifted back in around noontime, and she walks in with a happy look on her face. She brings her chair up to your bed, and leans on it.

"So, Johnny-boy, what's the news?" She asks.

"I'm going to a teen ward upstate soon. It was a really hard decision, but I decided that I kind of need to take the chance. I get to go home to pack, but that's about it," You tell her, smiling slightly.

"Oh, wow. That was a really big decision, kiddo. You alright?" She raises her eyebrows, leaning forward.

"Yeah, I'll be fine. I usually have decent luck anyways, uhh, so, anything new happening on the outside world?" You wonder, changing the subject

"Dunno, let's watch the news, I snagged us a new remote," She grins as she turns the TV to the news.

You didn't think the news was going to keep you entertained in the hospital, and you were right, but it gives you time to stare at the TV and think without it being weird with Clara there. Like she's an awesome nurse and everything, but things are a little awkward. So to pass the time you just think about pretty much everything. You notice that Clara has this quirk that whenever something comes on that she doesn't like, her fingers twitch or her nose crinkles. You doubt she even notices it. So that's your topic today, quirks. Things you do that might be weird to others. You usually leave before the last notes get out of the air when you play, because the tension of chords usually bothers you a little. Sometimes you think that you make a face when Rose talks about her familial passive-aggressive war. You also get this huge grin when you're setting up a prank. This keeps you entertained for about an hour or so, but eventually you tune into the news. 

Dad enters soon, and tells you that he's going to be packing your things for you and he will be back in an hour or so. It strikes you that he doesn't know where all of your blades are, and a small portion of panic rises in your chest. You realize how silly it is to be afraid he's going to learn about your secret. He already knows. He doesn't know that there are a few razors hidden in the creases of your shoes- that there are a few in the leather of your belts- that they are hidden all over the place. You wonder if they'll be able to find them all when you check in. 

By the time Dad returns, you have already entertained every bad event possible in your head. The suitcase he brings with you is small- but effective, as you don't really need a lot of clothes. You take the initiative to hug him, and you can tell he appreciates it. He rests his head atop yours and whispers to you that he is so very proud of your decision. It was a big step, he tells you, but he's glad you're doing it. You actually don't mind him coddling you this time. When you leave in a state-authorized vehicle, the smaller sized window shows your father as you leave. His hat is off, and you wave at him. A hundred fingerprints dot your vision through the window, and you can't bring yourself to place your hand where theirs once were. You turn forwards, and endure the lack of air conditioning on your way to the teen ward. It is a long, silent ride. 

-

The woman puts you in a room one-on-one with this kind of stocky guy who goes through your belongings in search of sharps. He removes a few from your belts and your shoes, but misses one. You don't tell him he missed it. He doesn't say much about the razors he's found, and gives them to someone else to dispose of them. Then he takes away the laces on your shoes, he takes the drawstring from your sweatpants, he takes your belts, and he takes anything he deems long enough in the sleeve or pant department with him. He takes your phone and your ipod, telling you that nearing the end of your stay you will be allowed to have them again. You're allowed the longer clothes back in a few days after you're off one-on-one, and the shoelaces and drawstring when you leave. It's around four-thirtyish by now, and the man informs you that firstly, his name is Rufioh. His tone is really casual, and he seems to be a friendly guy. 

"Yeah, so... dinner's in about half an hour and I'm supposed to give you the details on the rules around this place... There's not much to it really, you're not supposed to touch anyone else that much. The techs get a lil wily about it... you get like ten minutes for each phone call, no bath buckets or towels or food in your room, no sharps obviously, uhh... just don't do anything bad, basically. You're here to get better, not worse. We also try not to ask others why they are here in case of any triggers or anything, so everyone's comfortable..." He runs over the checklist in his head, adding some pauses. 

He's this kind of character you wouldn't ever, ever expect to see here. He's got this hair with red all in it and moderately edgy clothes and it's kind of amusing how much he stands out against the plain walls. You unpack anything you have left into the dresser with notably rounded corners, and sit on your bed. You pull out a book Dad packed for you and read for fifteen minutes until Rufioh starts conversation. He asks you just basic stuff like your family, your friends, etc, and you realize he's a really easygoing guy? When you ask him about his name and it's relevance to a certain peter pan movie, he laughs. You chat with him until dinner comes round, and he leads you to the dining hall/cafeteria. You're a minute or so late, and Rufioh brings you up and shows you where to get food. It's beef stroganoff with green beans, and spirits seem low in the cafeteria. You remember Rose's sideways jab at the food and groan. When you go to sit, you don't know where to go.

Rufioh brings you over to a table with a few other kids and one more counselor? Is that what they are? You're really not sure what their roles are. He greets her, her name something along the lines of Aria? Arana? Aranea? Something like that. They make small chat and you look to the two kids sitting near you. There's one girl with very, very long black hair who has red lipstick on and her pants are torn slightly. The lipstick makes you flinch briefly, so you move on to the boy. He has these shades on inside, for some reason, and his hair is so blond it is nearly white. Freckles dot his cheeks where you can see them along with long white scars that peek up from his collar. He shoves his food around on his plate (untouched, you notice) and looks up at you. He mulls over something briefly before going back to (not) eating his food. You can't blame him. It's actually kind of really gross. You voice it over to him in a whisper.

"You think this is bad? Just wait 'til Thursday, when they break out the goddamn (Araniiiiuh??? taps twice on the table) potato salad. It's fuckin' (two taps) unholy garbage. They put grapes in it to make it sweet. That's just wrong. Wronger than wrong. It's so wrong that criminals everywhere are cringing at it in their cells right this very second. One hundred thousand criminals are cringing right now, yelling 'God, please, God why do they put the grapes in potato salad?? They don't belong there!!!' in their little cells and the prison ward cries for them," He rambles, his fork near his face with some of the stroganoff as he waves it around.

You suppress a chuckle and raise your eyebrows.

"Are you sure? Really? That many? It's an epidemic," You respond very seriously.

"Yeah. The kitchen staff really need to watch what they're doing. Epidemics are serious shit. (You think A. gave up by now, as she doesn't tap again) It's Dave, by the way. You're the new kid, right?" He asks you, shoving a little of his food in his mouth and cringing. 

"Yeah, I'm John. I just got here about an hour ago," You tell him, doing the same.

The girl counselor (you've given up on her name, my god, Dave's the only one with a normal name around here you swear) taps the table three times and you can literally _feel_ his eye roll as he eats more of his food. Rufioh looks over, and his facial expression reads that he's glad you are getting along with someone. You go to cut a large piece of beef on your plate, but as it turns out, no knives. Not even butter knives. You suck it up and shove the big piece in your mouth anyways, chewing on the tough meat. 

After dinner, everyone else seems to be going to an activity, but Rufioh brings you to meet the psychiatrist you'll be talking with while you're here. His name is quite simply Scratch, and his presence is calming. He's nothing like the guy in the hospital, who was cheery and kind of obnoxious. You feel a bit better meeting him, about the whole place. You really do. You're not sure what the future holds for you here, but you know that it won't be a bad place to stay, at least. You talk with Doc. Scratch for a few hours while everyone else is doing things, as he doesn't have anyone on his schedule at the moment except for you. When he asks how you're coming along you explain that Rufioh is very friendly and you've already met a few people. 

Rufioh brings you afterwards to something you're told is closure group, and everyone is talking about their daily goals and who accomplished them. A few people cry, the girl from earlier whose name is Aradia, says that she actually did finish what she accomplished, and sends a small smile Dave's way. When it's Dave's turn, he rambles on and on but the eventual and overall answer is basically a "yes". He talks in a very precise, paced way, and it reminds you of a moderato.

When it comes to you, however, the group specialist Jane just asks you to introduce yourself. You say that you're from the state yourself, you're sixteen, and you arrived an hour ago. You like to play piano, do magic tricks, and watch movies, you tell them, and then the focus moves on. A few people look at you, trying to size you up, and you try not to let it bother you. Afterwards comes everyone's night meds or something, and there is a long line in the hall. Rufioh tells you that in a few days time, after Doc. Scratch has had some time to assess you, you'll be given meds as well. You don't know how you feel about that. 

Soon enough, you're led off to the common room where a TV is showing a romantic comedy you haven't seen (a request by one of the patients, you're told), and you curl up on the floor in a blanket as you watch. You don't get into the movie as much as you would like to, and end up thinking/spacing out through it. The whole place is a lot to take in and you don't know what to do. While you're not having a bad time, you can't say you outwardly like it. You're actually very, very tired. Not physically, really, but you're just tired. Emotionally tired or whatever. 

You end up snoozing through the end of the movie, and even dream a little about nonsensical stuff. Vibrant colors, loud sounds, the like. You vaguely sense the lights coming back up after the movie, but you're still floating in your partially asleep state. You hear Rufioh laugh a little, and he tells you he'll wake you back up when it's time to go to bed. He keeps his promise, and introduces you to a few counselor/nurses on the way back to your room. He tells you that they'll all change shifts to keep a watch over you while you sleep for the first few days. You hit your bed with no qualms, are briefly miffed because you only have one pillow, and then fall into a deep, deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah ye so I took a lil longer this time because  
> a) koala-tea  
> and  
> b) I finished up the rough outline of the entire work! I don't know how long exactly it's going to be, but I have a basic understanding of everything that is going to go down.
> 
> I don't actually know the approximate time that it takes to get transferred or the exact type of transport, even after some research, (someone in the comments did leave their story though, so I'm taking a little from that as well gomen) so it may not be as accurate as the first/second chapter. Uncharted personal waters, and all.  
> as always my blog is timorousAugur.tumblr.com  
> I post lil updates and junk so uvu
> 
> comments are v much appreciated.


	4. John ==> Get a Roomie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This took A REALLY LONG TIME and I'm really really sorry!!!

It takes a few days, but they let you off being one-on-one all the time. This means you're going to be getting a roommate- one who Rufioh pointedly denies you the name of. It's kind of silly, really, because you're itching to know if it's someone you're friends with. Which you actually have made a few of those here- friends that is. 

Dave and Aradia count, and you have talked to a few others. You have been pointedly ignoring the weird kid that hangs in the back of group and has weird speech patterns. His name starts with a G you think? You really wonder what the hell these peoples parents were thinking. Not that their names don't sound good or anything, they're just so out there. Maybe it's the area that the hospital is in. It probably had a native tribe in the area and a lot of the names come from ancestors. Yeah. That's probably it, you tell yourself. 

"No, seriously, who's my roommate though?" You ask him for the umpteenth time.

"Haha... It's a secret... I mean if that's ok with you," He says, pausing as he usually does. 

You let out the deepest sigh. The deepest of all sighs. In fact you think this sigh may be so deep, it could win a world record. You let it go, however, as you're nearing the other half of the psych unit's rooms, and Rufio stops in front of a door with a name plate that reads "TW29". Simply beautiful. When you open the door, Dave is on the other side, his hands fidgeting slightly with a clearly practiced half-smirk on his face. This really refreshing laughter just bubbles up from inside of you and you roll your eyes at the two of them as you bring your things over to the bed on the other side of the room. They look almost disappointed. 

While you're unpacking some of your things, you ask Rufioh if you're allowed to get anything back yet. He supplies you with a few of your favorite pullover sweaters, and you're glad to have the long sleeves back. You don't have to stare at the ugly scars forming on your arms anymore. That is a blessing in itself. 

Dave twitches over to his bed on the third beat of a measure you're subconsciously counting, and his fingers mess with the carded bedsheets. He decides to help you pack things away, and by that, you mean he talks about your things while you put them away as fast as he possibly can. You're pretty sure that he's a bit nervous- and that's fine, you guess you would be too. You humor him as Rufioh leans against the doorway.

"Yeah man, we made sure that you would end up in a room with me. Rufioh and I totally went on this huge mission to get you here. We had to bribe some officials, give a few back alley handjobs, and we ended up with a giraffe somewhere along the way - not sure how that happened - but you're here. I hope you appreciate all the hard work we went through. I even had to sell the giraffe on the way for you, John. I had to sell the giraffe," His eyebrows shoot up at the end of his explanation.

"Wow. That's amazing, Dave. You'll have to tell me all about it later. And by later I mean like never," You say, laughing a little.

"Dang. Rude. Don't you know how to treat a lady after she comes home from a taxing journey for you? I'm wounded, really," He licks his lips and checks the time. 

You chat with him for about half an hour before it's time for lunch, after Rufioh excuses himself. Trudging through the line is boring in a hundred ways, but you get to the cafeteria lady and you give her your tray. She puts your food gently on your plate, and you move on. When you get to the table, you actually check out your food. It's this open faced turkey sandwich, you think? It comes with mayo and it's a little soggy. You get milk and some vegetables along with it, which taste considerably better than the main course. Dave is given a different meal, which you didn't really think? Happened? Apparently it happens though and his looks fresh cooked and ultimately 150% yummier than yours. It's still a sandwich but it's got cooked egg in it and a little bit of cheese and something else and holy hell it looks good. You whine over at him about how lucky he is before digging in to your half soggy sandwich. You can almost taste the misery.

Aranea and Aradia have joined you again today, and Aradia has the same food as you do. Aradia is a pretty cool girl, you'd like to say, but all you really know about her is that she is really into exploring and archaeology. She's very pretty though, she has this awesome browny black hair that's super long. You've literally never seen hair so long in your life, and you wonder a little if it ever gets stuck or if it's a pain to deal with. You think she's native american because of her skin tone, and make an effort to remember to ask later. As far as you can assume, you can tell what she's here for. Scars weren't really something you were actually looking for -(but you were looking for them)- and she has these welts on her arm that remind you of the jagged ones forming on your own. Dave has scars too- but they're more like fine brown lines and thin, purple scars around his shoulders that reach up and peek out just barely. They don't seem like they would be in the same family of scars. You kind of hate that you can tell the difference. 

Swiftly moving on, you tell yourself, you choke down the sandwich and Dave (as far as you can tell) looks at you incredulously. Like he can't believe you just ate that soggy turkey abomination in a few fell swoops. He's silly though. There is simply no other way to eat something so gross. You just have to throw it down as fast as possible. He keeps doing the face on purpose though, and it eventually increases in it's size until he flattens out his entire face at once. You try not to laugh. You're not laughing. You're really not. Whoever thinks you're laughing is a huge fool. 

Deciding he deserves at least a quick revenge for making you laugh, however, you chuck a snow pea at his face. he, surprising as ever, actually catches the fucking snow pea though, and he crunches on it with a smug attitude. 

You'll get him eventually. You didn't spend half your childhood developing (and using) pranks for nothing. Aranea nudges her foot against yours and then Dave's, and you get the message. He resumes eating and you lean back to stretch and talk to Aradia. Somehow you manage to end up on movies and she, rather excitedly, mentions Indiana Jones. This leads to a very long discussion about his character and all of his movies that has Dave groaning from the other side of the table. 

After lunch, almost everyone is taken in for vitals and/or a weighing. The room where they do this is extremely cold and you shiver. It's finally one of the recreational therapy times after that though- so you end up going to a small room with a few other patients where they have tambourines, xylophones, and the like. There is actually one upright piano in the corner, and you ask one of the techs to use it. They allow you to, and Dave slumps down at the end of it with maracas in his hands. 

The piano itself is dusty and looks like it hasn't been used in quite a while. Some of the keys are a little chipped but none are missing and the light, sandy wood is the exact opposite of the one you have in your home. It looks kind of strange to you, just sitting in the corner of the room. It's a bit of a shame, really. You hope the notes won't be too out of tune. Judging by the fact it's in a ward, it probably hasn't had much temp change in the past few years, so you should be fine. 

You touch your fingers over the keys, feeling the dust that's built up, and you brush most of it off. You test out a few of the keys and there are a few that are a little out of tune, but they're not all too bad. To be honest, you're not even sure what you want to play. There's tons and tons of pieces you know, a few with wonderful solos, but you just rest over the piano, your hands hovering. You start to play Gavotte, as it's really easy, it's light and fun (which is totally what everyone needs around here), but about halfway through the eighth measure you stop. It's weird. In a way you can't really explain, it's weird.

Screwing your face up a bit, you force out a few clippets of melodies from different pieces but you just really don't feel any of it. It puts a bit of a damper on your mood. Eventually you end up playing some of the nutcracker from memory, but you just can't remember all of it. You bite the inside of your cheek and close the cover over the keys, resting a moment, and then opening it up again. There has to be something you can play, even in a funk. So you start to play a your old duet that you made with Rose. You agreed to play parts that represented each other, in a conversational piece. Call and response, basically. You eventually get to parts that represent some difficult times, and as you're playing lower and lower notes a flash of her in your hospital room peeks up from the cracks.

It shakes you a little bit, and you play a few notes wrong in sequence. You stop, and cover the keys immediately. Getting up, you slide over to grab a tambourine from the pile and a tech writes down a few notes. You don't have it in you to care what it says. Plopping down by Dave, you hit the ground a little hard in your recklessness (and frankly, childishness) and wince.

The maracas Dave is holding are these awful green and orange things that were probably brought straight from South of the Border in South Carolina. The light creates a slight glare on them and you notice that it also makes his shades slightly more transparent. You can almost see his eyes flick when he looks back over to you. You see a pale brownish color almost, even a mahogany color, you'd say. You can't discern the color with the shades on. He seems to meet your eyes after a moment, and it just kind of tumbles out of your lips.

"Why do you wear those things inside, anyways?"

"Why'd you stop playing?" He retorts quickly.

You chew on your lip more, and offer him a shrug. He shrugs right back at you. You figure that if you're not going to answer him, he doesn't have to answer you. A few minutes pass by in silence, until he begins tapping out a repetitive rhythm on your tambourine. Following his lead, you shake the tambourine a bit un-enthusiastically. Dave plays his maracas the best anyone can, but when he starts to clack them together to create variety you stop him for the sake of everyone's ears. 

It's time for group. You don't want to go. Not because you're enchanted by Dave and all the people in the music room, and not because you really love playing the tambourine. You don't want to go. Dave stands up and looks to you as everyone begins filing out of the room, until the only people left are you, Dave, and a tech. Sparing you a last glance, he leaves you with the tech. 

"John, is there something wrong?" the tech asks.

You guess there has to be something wrong. Every detail of the opposite wall is assessed. You feel closer to the wall than your own body. Though you feel it, you can't say you consciously nod your head to the tech. 

"Is it possible for me not to go to group?" you ask, and the border of the wall has three dents in the white, polished wood edging. 

The tech begins to go over rules and schedules, but soon complies to bringing you back to your room. You're going to lose points, or something like that. You don't care. Your appointment with Scratch is brought back an hour so that he can begin prescribing you pills before nightly pills are distributed. 

Dave comes back from group a half of an hour later and you didn't even notice that time had passed by. Apparently the teen wards ceilings are so interesting that you lost an entire half of an hour of your life. Congratulations, John. Really living out your life there. He looks over to you for a second and asks if you want to see something special tomorrow. 

"It's in the garden, and we're allowed out there, but nobody knows about it. I think you'd like it," He suggests. 

You think that he's doing it so that you have something to look forward to, or something to cheer you up. You're only sarcastically thankful, but you nod your head and roll into your mattress to sleep for the rest of the day until you have your appointment with Scratch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ned Vizzini was actually one of the inspirations to this work. When I heard he had died, my heart shattered. I just want to say that he was one of the writers that saved my life a few times, and I owe a lot to him. I don't know where I'm going with this, but I wanted to at least say something.  
> This chapter was a little bland, I'll admit, but it got me out of my non-writing funk and I think I can start writing again. With school, an inspiration dying, and figuring out future stuff, It has been a bit hard for me, but I think I'm getting better at handling this kind of stuff together?? Anyways, as always, my tumblr is timorousaugur.tumblr.com ! I love you guys, thank you!


End file.
